


Counterpoint

by Chimerari



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dwarves, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2014-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:58:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'What do you want?'<br/>'World peace, the end of global warming, saving your dance troupe from bankruptcy. You know, small things.<br/>27/10/14: this fic is, in all likelihood, abandoned. My apologies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bilbo should have known when the doorbell dinged at six.

He wobbled down the stairs, taking as long as he pleased; unannounced visitors were the height of bad taste. Showing up at supper time even worse.

It took Bilbo a minute to place that lanky frame, peering up to a pair of bushy eyebrows.

‘…Gandalf?’

‘Hello my friend. Did we catch you at a bad time?’

Knowing full well Bilbo would not miss a meal for anything, or anyone. Then his brain caught up.

We?

He spotted, belatedly, a second figure hovering just behind: broad shoulders, scruff of beard, brows knitted in annoyance.

What on earth was going on? Why would Gandalf drag a stranger, by the looks of it, kicking and screaming to his door?

‘No of course not. Do come in.’ For once Bilbo cursed his upbringing. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to slam the door in their faces. It pained him to think of his lovely supper---minestrone with thick slices of bread----going cold on the table. But he really didn’t fancy offering them food.

‘Tea?’

‘Something stronger, if you don’t mind.’ Gandalf glided past Bilbo, coat tail swishing. His dark and silent shadow squeezed in as well, brushing moisture off his jacket without a word. Bilbo was on the verge of asking his guests to take their shoes off; those muddy boots were giving him the itch. But they’ve already disappeared down the hall, Gandalf leading the way.

Bilbo stomped off to fetch the cheapest bottle of wine, taking down one glass from the cupboard before cursing, reaching for another.

If the stranger didn’t like red wine, he could bloody well sit and brood.

Snippets of hushed conversation drifted through the door as he returned.

‘Why are we here again?’

‘All in good time, Thorin, all in good time.’

Thorin. Bilbo frowned. He’d heard the name before, but for the life of him he couldn’t remember where.

On closer inspection, the duo appeared even more mismatched: Gandalf who folded his long legs underneath himself, cheeks pink with cold. For a moment Bilbo was inclined to believe the rumours of a damned portrait; after all these years the old fox still seemed ageless, ready to unfurl those spidery limbs and dash off to god knows where.

Thorin, on the other hand, sat still as a statue. Back straight, one hand resting on each knee like he was in a courtroom. Bilbo had met a few of Gandalf’s friends; tall, lithe, arty type, if prone to cryptic word games. There was nothing arty about Thorin, despite the thick hair pulled into a ponytail; he looked like a cross between a banker and a mafia boss---

God, Gandalf didn’t, did he? Bilbo’s hand shook a little and the wine sloshed into the glass.

Don’t be silly, he scolded himself. Gandalf was hardly what you’d call conventional, but he didn’t get tangled up in shady business either, as far as Bilbo knew.

The look Gandalf gave him over the rim of the glass told him exactly how not impressed he was with Bilbo’s lack of hospitality. And Bilbo would be lying if he said that didn’t give him a small degree of vindictive pleasure.

‘Well, I believe an introduction was in order.’ Gandalf gestured between them. ‘Bilbo Baggins. Thorin Oakenshield.’

Everything clicked. Oakenshield was not a common surname. Bilbo blurted out, ‘Were you the one Thranduil mentioned in his last---’

Wow, he thought Thorin looked vaguely threatening before. It was nothing compared the look in his eyes now; butter in a pan, something that hissed and crackled.

Beside him, Gandalf winced. Bilbo shut his mouth with a click. Thranduil was not known for gentle delivery, and the last article was particularly cutting even by his standard.

Thorin sat up even straighter, as if steeling himself for a blow. Bilbo dropped his gaze hastily. ‘I’m sorry. I still don’t know why you’re here.’

‘Do you remember, Bilbo, back in 97, you mentioned an idea to me…’

That was Gandalf all over. Never jumped into the middle of the tale, always preferred teasing out the thread from the beginning.

Glancing over at Thorin, Bilbo blinked. ‘You didn’t mean---‘

‘Precisely what I meant, old boy.’ Gandalf lifted his glass in salute. ‘I thought it was marvellous back then, and I think that now, perhaps more so.’

Bilbo didn’t know whether to laugh or sputter. ‘I was pretty drunk at that time.’

‘Does it matter?’ Gandalf swayed forward, eyes twinkling. ‘I still believe it can be done, given the right cast, the right opportunity.’

‘Will someone care to fill in the gaps for me?’

Thorin rasped. It was a voice that sounded like he smoked forty a day and drank nothing but whiskey.

‘You came to me for advice, Thorin. And I’m giving it to you.’ Gandalf turned towards him, almost looming. ‘More than that, I’m giving you a kick up the butt you desperately need.’

‘I’m all ears.’ Thorin’s teeth were clenched so tight the words might have drawn blood.

‘I’m giving you a revolution.’ He pointed to Bilbo, who gawped back.

‘Gandalf! I’m a theatre critic. I’m not, whatever it is you thought I was!’

Thorin’s eyes narrowed at the word critic, and Bilbo suppressed a nervous giggle. Seemed like Thranduil had really sunk his teeth in this time, considering the review was written six months ago. Bilbo hadn’t seen the performance himself, but a few lines came to mind:

_‘Thorin has finally lost his touch. Having a signature style is not a liability, stagnation, on the other hand...’_

_‘…gone were the days when stars from Durin commanded the stage of Erebor with their names alone, not an empty seat in the house.’_

‘So, Mr Baggins. What was this idea of yours?’

‘No, no no no.’ he glared at Gandalf. ‘I’m not doing this.’

‘So you’re happy to sit behind a computer, writing generic reviews for every drab show you’re forced to watch?’ Gandalf bristled. ‘Where was the Bilbo who dreamt of creating his own vision, huh? Where was the lad who wanted to shake up the world?’

‘People change, people **grow up** , Gandalf,’ he snapped back.

‘Or they grow placid.’ Gandalf lowered his voice, though his eyes were no less piercing.

‘It’s…’ Bilbo swallowed, ‘…it’s not just about me though, is it? If it doesn’t work out, It will be more than my neck that’s on the line.’

‘That is a risk for me to decide.’ Thorin intoned.

‘Oh that’s reassuring, fearless leader.’ Bilbo was well and truly annoyed now.

‘Enough, both of you!’ Gandalf stood abruptly, the tips of his silver beard quivering,

 

 

‘Gandalf.’ he hissed, gripping the man’s elbow as he rushed into the kitchen. ‘Have you lost your mind?’

‘I assure you I’m perfectly sincere in my suggestion.

‘You can’t just breeze in and ask me to drop everything!’

‘I’m giving you a rare opportunity.’

‘To do what?’

‘To turn an idea you’ve had for years into reality.’ Gandalf ruffled though the cupboards, frowning to himself. ‘Christ, what was that? It’s going to take me days to get drunk on that monkey’s piss.’

‘Okay, okay let’s forget---’ Bilbo breathed through his nose, ‘---for a minute about everything else. You do realize that Durin is not exactly known for their progressive style do you?’

‘And who better to bring a breath of fresh air?’

‘ **Not** me, that’s for sure.’ Bilbo rapped his knuckles on the kitchen counter. ‘I’m a critic, Gandalf. And if I ever was a playwright, I was mediocre at best.’

 

 

Thorin whirled around as soon as they stepped outside, shrugging the jacket on with more force than necessary.

‘Do you really expect me to let some random stranger into my studio, who may or may not be able to help?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘You ask too much Gandalf, and take too much for granted.’

Gandalf leaned on the end of his umbrella, listing towards him like the tower of Pisa. Normally he didn’t mind the few inches Gandalf had on him, but tonight his patience was wearing thin.

He scowled right back.

‘Your company hovers on the edge, Thorin.’ It was Gandalf’s reasonable voice, the voice that ended all arguments. ‘Either wait for it to topple, or for goodness sake, haul yourself over the cliff and soar.’

Thorin stood there for long moments after the taxi had sped away. The road gleamed faintly, oiled by the moon.

 

 

The address he was given was hidden among a labyrinth of residential blocks and warehouses. And, in Bilbo’s opinion, had way too many joggers around this early in the morning.

He gave up after turning on the spot in three different directions, while the little arrow on Google map remained stubbornly still. Sighing, he stopped a passer-by.

‘Excuse me, could you tell me where Blue Mountain Studio is?’

‘Sure, going there myself.’ The youngster’s eyes widened comically. ‘Hey, you must be mister Boggins!’ He snatched up Bilbo’s hand, shaking it with gusto. ‘We were told you were coming today.’

Bilbo pulled his hand back with a stiff smile. ‘Well no, I mean, yes. Again, could you show me---’

His knees buckled as the guy slung an arm over his shoulder.

‘Come along then. Class hasn’t started yet. Well, I hope.’ He grinned nervously.

Bilbo stumbled after him, half terrified that his air supply could be cut off by the iron hold around his neck.

Inside what Bilbo assumed to be a garage, a narrow corridor appeared. His guide gave him a shove in the back, muttering something about needing to get changed, don’t worry, just go on in.

He counted to three, and gingerly pushed the door open. The smell of waxed wood and deodorant almost made him sneeze.

Lines of people were already gathered around the barre---a colourful assemble of leotards, shorts and vests---bending and twisting their ankles. A few curious glances drifted towards him, but most ignored his entrance. In the centre stood a jolly looking chap in a red jumper, hands clasped behind his back, giving him a comical resemblance to Santa Claus.

Santa bellowed when the door opened a second time, the image of warm charm shattering instantly.

‘Kili! That’s the third time this week! When I said class starts at 9, I meant 9 o’clock sharp, not three minutes past!’

The youngster fairly shrank back in fear, trying in vain to hide behind Bilbo, who was a good head shorter than him.

Santa’s attention shifted to Bilbo, brows rising before he broke into a grin. ‘Mister Baggins, I assume?’

Bilbo nodded weakly.

‘You’re here earlier than I expected, I must say.’ He strode over, hand extended. ‘Balin. Thought we’d be seeing you after lunch, that’s when the rehearsal starts.’

‘No I wanted to come and see the class.’ Bilbo waved at the room, feeling more self-conscious by the second. ‘Please, carry on, I’ll be quiet as a mouse, you won’t even notice I’m here.’

Balin beamed. ‘Make yourself comfortable then.’ His gaze fell to the side, smile vanishing. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? Find a space!’

Kili bounded over to a spot in the corner, pulling one leg of his tracksuit bottom up as he went. He settled in with a little hop, but not before giving a blond in front a smack, who jabbed him in the ribs just as gleefully.

Whatever they might say about Durin’s, their technique has never been the question. Bilbo mused; solid, graceful lines honed from years of hard work. Fair bit of friendly competition amongst the younger dancers, as could be expected. Dwalin he still recognized---one of the longest serving principals in the company---famed for his tattoos, wild, sprawling lines of ink covering both arms, something rarely seen on a classically trained dancer. Watching him up close was even more impressive, muscles bunching to lift him impossibly high into the air.

Kili, the one he bumped into earlier, together with the blond were clearly the youngest, likely fresh out of ballet school. They huddled together as they waited for their turn in the centre, often having an entire conversation with just a look or a hand gesture across the room (a necessity, Bilbo suspected, under Balin’s eagle eye). There was a playfulness to their movement, something perhaps not typical for a Durin dancer.

 During the last series of jumping exercise, Kili threw in a little flourish at the end, landing on one knee with a hand on his hip, the other arm lifted as if busking in the admiration of thousands. The whole room erupted into cheers, apparently used to this boisterous display. From the corner of his eye Bilbo caught the blond tugging him up, smirking as he said something, which earned him a slap on the arm.


	2. Chapter 2

‘So, what do you think?’

Bilbo started, turning to face Thorin, who seemed to have materialized out of thin air. For a moment Bilbo thought he detected a sliver of amusement in those dark eyes.

‘Is there anywhere we could actually talk?’ Bilbo almost had to shout over the piano accompaniment. Thorin nodded and walked off, clearly expecting Bilbo to follow.

‘I don’t know what Gandalf has told you already.’ Bilbo blurted out as the door closed behind them. Thorin marched down the corridor, voice wry.

‘Typically, nothing.’                                                     

‘Just so you know, what I came up with back then was nothing more than a vague notion.’ Bilbo trotted after him, his face getting uncomfortably warm.

‘I gathered that much at least.’ Thorin led them into what Bilbo assumed to be his office, gesturing for him to take a seat. ‘Any idea how long it will take for you to flesh it out?’

‘How long have you got? I get the impression there is a limited time frame here.’

‘A month.’ the set of Thorin’s jaw said he was doing his level best to humour the speaker. ‘Six weeks tops.’

‘No pressure then.’ Bilbo dropped into the chair, wincing as the hard wood dug into his back.

‘Mr Baggins.’ Thorin began, then paused, a muscle jumping in his cheek. ‘I will need more than hints and half riddles to commit to this. I hope you understand.’

‘Well, at this moment in time, I have a fairly good idea who I want for the leads.’

Thorin steepled his fingers. ‘Who?’

‘Kili. And the one with blond hair.’

‘Fili.’ Thorin frowned. ‘They’re new. Not even soloist yet. To put the weight of an entire production on them is---’

‘For what I have in mind.’ Bilbo leaned across the desk, feeling suddenly bold. ‘I _need_ the two leads to be able to move absolutely in sync. They have to mirror each other instinctively, without checking to see where the other person is. And  they’ve already got this, connection in spades, that much I’ve seen.’

‘Is there any way you could reconsider?’

‘None.’

 

 

‘Matey, you gonna spit it out or do you need another round?’

Ah, the peril of having grown up in each other’s pockets. Thorin glanced up from his tumbler, smiling a little. ‘That obvious huh?’

Dwalin snorted. ‘You’ve been thinking so hard you’re giving me an ulcer. Now what is it?’

‘If, and that’s a big if, the next production is going ahead.’ Thorin wrecked his brain for a way to address Gandalf’s friend, Baggins? Bilbo? The hired help? ‘He wanted Kili and Fili to dance the leads.’

A beat of silence.

‘That’s it? That’s what got you all torn up?’ Dwalin groaned. ‘Christ I thought you were going to give me some bad news. Like Dis was fighting with her fella, again.’

‘Leave my sister out of this.’ Thorin huffed out a laugh. The joke has worn thin over the years, Dis and her famous temper.

‘So what’s the problem? ‘bout time you give those boys some meatier roles.’

He itched for a cigarette. Hell, he’d been a smoker for all of three months and he still craved one when he was cornered.

‘It’s not uncommon, giving a young dancer a wee push.’ Dwalin put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing. ‘They’re good kids. You know this, I know this, the entire company knows this.’

‘I just…’ Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘I don’t want people to think they’ve got an advantage over everybody else.’

‘Nobody thinks that. And if they do, they’ve got me to answer to.’

Thorin let out a slow exhale. He appreciated the vote of confidence from Dwalin, as always.  Plus, what was the use of fretting, when he didn’t even have a goddamn synopsis yet?

 

 

The quick phone call to Gandalf was extraordinarily unhelpful. Least of all because of how smug Gandalf was.

‘Oh I never doubted for a second that you’d agree to do this.’

‘I don’t even know where to start! A frigging ballet, Gandalf.’  Jesus he was going to hyperventilate. His headstone was going to read ‘Should Have Avoided Gandalf Grey’.

‘I chose you precisely because you’re not restrained by rules.’ Gandalf’s laugh was throaty, tumbling over the hubbub in the background. ‘All that gibberish about style and genre and isms. Write what you know, what makes sense to you.’

Bilbo hung up without saying goodbye. Shame there was no effective way of slamming a mobile shut.

He stared at the blank computer screen for another half an hour before he switched the thing off, and started digging around for his old note book: dusty and wedged between two giant volumes of art theory.

Act.1—Halcyon days

 He jolted the words down. Thoughts and fragments edging closer like drums in the distance.

_\---Look at me, look at me, don’t look away. It’s all neon lights and Sodom. At least everyone is determined to have one hell of a good time---_

 

 

Thorin went through the leather-bound pages once, then again, slower this time. The space was filled with sentences, disjointed phrases interlinked by arrows, and more often than not, sketches.

What worried him the most was the last page, with only the title ‘Act 4’ sitting at the top, and left completely blank otherwise.  This was a far cry from what he was used to; Balin’s neat notation, blocky lines and crosses written over a piece of score so that every movement in relation to the music was clearly laid out.

‘I could explain…’

‘No it’s alright.’ Thorin went back to the beginning, still frowning. ‘I think I’ve got the gist.’

Bilbo was momentarily taken aback. ‘You did?’

Even his friends from uni had found his scripts terribly confusing, not to mention downright infuriating when it came to rehearsals.

‘Yes.’ Thorin gave a tight smile. ‘Although this is still a long way from the finished product, I hope.’

‘Yeah about that…’ Bilbo scratched the back of his head. ‘I’ll need some help, obviously. I could talk characters and moods to the dancers, but actually translating them into movements---’

‘Mr Baggins,’

Bilbo winced, his heart plunging.

‘What you have here is a libretto.’ Thorin seemed to be humming quietly; doubtful, encouraging, embarrassed, Bilbo couldn’t tell. ‘I suggest you take this to Balin straightaway.’

He blinked. ‘Is that, is that a yes?’ then coloured immediately at his own incredulity.

‘Contrary to popular belief.’ Thorin slipped off those reading glasses, the corners of his mouth twitched. Bilbo suspected he was being teased but there was no telling. ‘We can’t dance to words alone.’

 

 

Bilbo sat with his back against the piano, a laptop open in front of him and piles of CDs lying around. There was something comforting about being close to the ground, especially when he needed to think. His friends joked once that he must have been a mole in the previous life.

Balin, on the other hand, seemed to require motion. As if his thoughts were snooker balls, rolling from temple to temple.

As far as casual appreciation went, Bilbo was no stranger to ballet. He knew enough to say what looked good, picked up a few technical terms along the way. To share in the creation of one, however,  was nothing short of mind blowing. Balin would read a few lines, clap his hands and decide the scene required  seven couples in a three-two-two line up, just like that.  Even their reactions to music were different;  Bilbo started scribbling once something caught his interest, nailing down a plot point which had eluded him. Balin swayed to the melody, eyes shut, exclaiming to no one in particular that an assisted jete would go perfectly with that cymbal note.

The door to the studio squeaked open and someone stuck their head in. Bilbo squinted: freckles, a narrow face which gave him a slightly wilted look, like a plant that’s been kept in the dark.

‘Oh hi, wasn’t expecting anyone to be in today.’ The boy (Bilbo doubted he was much older than twenty) glanced at Balin then Bilbo. ‘sorry to interrupt.’

‘Do come in, I’m the intruder, not you.’ Bilbo waved awkwardly. ‘Forgive me, I’m pretty bad with names, have we met?’

‘I sat behind a piano the whole time you were here.’ He tried to pull the sleeves of his jumper down, even though the frayed ends already went past his palms. ‘I’m Ori, by the way.’

Bilbo vaguely recalled a glimpse of sandy blond hair, bobbing in time to the music. ‘Do you need the studio?’

Balin was staging an impromptu solo in the far end, socked feet gliding and hopping. Bilbo doubted he even registered the interruption.

‘Nah there is another piano down the hall, I just came in to practice for a bit.’ Ori paused, eyeing the spread of CDs and score sheets curiously. ‘Sorry, I’ll shut up now, you guys look busy.’

Balin spotted Ori just then and gave a triumphant shout, making both men jump.

‘Aha! Just the man we need!’ He rushed over to drag Ori bodily into the centre of the room, beaming. ‘Our little encyclopaedia of music.’

Ori continued to tug and pull at his poor jumper. At the word ‘music’ he perked up, cheeks reddening. 

 

 

Kili almost tripped over a stray limb on his way to the loo.

‘What the…what are you doing here?’

Fili made a furious shushing motion. Kili dropped into a crouch beside him, one eyebrow climbing steadily to his hairline.

‘And why are we whispering?’

‘Hiding from Thorin, dumbo.’ Fili shuffled over so Kili could sit next to him. ‘I swear, if I have to listen to his motivational speech for one minute longer.’

‘He’s at it again?’

‘When is he not?’ Fili thumped the back of his head against the porcelain. ‘If it’s not for mum’s roast, I’d climb out of the window.’

‘Go ahead, all the more for me.’

‘Pig. See if I’ll lift your heavyass on opening night.’

‘Hey who says you’re doing the lifting?’

‘I’m older, DUH.’

‘And **shorter**.’

A fight ensued, elbows and knees jabbing into vulnerable places, making as little noise as possible even though they were both wheezing with laughter.

Growing up, Fili had alternated between being Kili’s very favourite person in the world and the devil incarnate. Simple, vicious older brother shit like accidently stepping on Kili’s sand castle, or putting bugs in his breakfast cereal, or spilling the beans about a girl Kili fancied, in a voice loud enough for the whole class to hear.

That particular episode earned Fili a black eye, and Kili not speaking a word to him for a week, slamming cupboards and doors whenever they were in the same space.

Until Fili roped him into playing Halo, and let him win three times in a row.

Wait.

‘Lifting? What lifting?’

‘And here I thought you hang on to uncle’s every word.’ Fili rolled his eyes. ‘The new show, rings a bell?’

‘I was listening,’ Kili mumbled. ‘It’s all very, mishy mushy abstract.’

‘Well, he definitely mentioned a pas de deux in there somewhere, genius.’

Kili made a face. ‘Yeah I thought he meant with a _girl_ , not your ugly mug.’

‘Oh hilarious. Everyone knows I’m the hot one.’

One day they’d have dentures and grandchildren and the wrestling would never come to an end, they’d be tripping each other with zimmer frames. Fili almost ended up with a toilet brush to the head, only narrowly saved by Dis, calling them down for supper.

 

 

Bilbo glanced up, swore when he noticed how dark it was outside.

‘Crap, look at the time.’

‘We’re just getting started.’ Ori waved his concern away. ‘Definitely stick to a pop slash techno sound for act one. I’ll get Bofur to do a remix for you, it’s more his thing. Although I know how much Thorin will love that.’

‘No shit.’ Balin piped up.

Orin grinned wider at quip. ‘Act two is, seductive right? Push and pull. Either you could go for something heavy on the bass, or like---’ he dramatically slapped a hand over his heart, ‘--- _it’s in the water baby, it’s between you and me.‘_

All three burst out laughing at Ori’s attempt at falsetto.

‘And for act three, I know just the piece.’ Ori scrambled up, fixing the stool with one hand while lifting the cover. The awkward, fidgety stance melted away the moment his fingers touched the keys, brow furrowing in reverie.

The first chord zinged through the room like startled wings.

Bilbo watched with his mouth ajar as Ori, for a lack of better description, caressed the keyboard, all quicksilver transfer of hands and looping notes.

A hellscape of sinister shadows and crumbling remains.

He was still speechless when Ori came to a halt, biting down on his lower lip nervously.

‘Wow, that was---‘

‘Yeah, it’s a bit weird, I’m still trying with the---’

Bilbo cut him off, rudeness be damned.

‘No it was perfect, it’s exactly what we’ve looking for. I don’t care what it takes but you’ve got to play this live for the third act.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what I imagined Ori played was 'Moonscape' by Edwin Roxburgh  
> just in case you didn't know, pas de deux is a partner dance/duet, typically done by a man and a woman.  
> assisted jete is where one partner aids the other in doing a jump  
> [](http://s157.photobucket.com/user/poordietingpig/media/Untitled_zps6dbd8366.jpg.html)


	3. Chapter 3

He’s always been the first to arrive at the studio, although lately more out of necessity than any desire to set a good example. There was no use denying it: he wasn’t getting any younger, and the muscles took longer to warm up and do what they were supposed to do, plain and simple.

He bent forward, putting both hands on the barre, breathing deep to try and stretch out his hamstrings.

From the back of the studio came a sudden clutter, followed by a muttered curse.

Dwalin closed his eyes.

‘Shit, kiddo, you trip over your own feet anymore we might need a new pianist.’

Ori sucked at the stealth thing. For a guy who looked like he could be knocked over by a strong breeze, he made a lot of noises.

‘Sorry, sorry.’ Ori clutched the score to his chest like a shield, crab-walking along the wall. Dwalin watched, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth, which somehow just made Ori all the more flustered. The stack of loose paper fluttering to the floor in twos and threes.

‘Breathing’s good you know, should try it sometime,’ said Dwalin, all helpful concern.

Ori swallowed, pointed at the piano like his vocation could have slipped Dwalin’s mind.

‘Just don’t break out the lady gaga covers then we’re cool.’

To be fair, it was only that one time he walked in on Ori belting out bad romance, but like hell he’d let it go.

Ori promptly screwed up the scales. Dwalin smothered a laugh into his knees.

 

 

‘No, no, no, stop. Everyone stop for a moment please.’

Bilbo mashed a fist into his eye socket. They were barely three bars into the music and he already had to intervene twice.

‘That was too much ballet.’

Murmurs buzzed around the room, a few snorts thrown in for good measure.

‘Okay, let me explain the setting again,’ Bilbo climbed onto a chair, making sure to look at each dancer in turn. ‘London, LA, the backdrop doesn’t matter. You’re Hollywood; it’s all air kisses and smiles for the camera. I want you to **walk** around, okay? Walk like you’ve never danced in your entire life.’

The faces stared back at him with bewilderment.

Luckily Balin was always quick to translate. ‘ Don’t turn your feet out. Arms! relax those arms, forget about port de bras for the time being.’ The dancers complied then, making exaggerated attempt to straighten their elbows and feet.

On the other side of the room, Thorin had both arms folded over his chest, radiating exasperation loud and clear.

‘Let’s try again, shall we?’

Thirty seconds later, ‘Better, much better. Chin up, 45 degrees.’ As it turned out, Balin wasn’t above using elbows to get people to behave, looming over the dancers’ shoulders like some drill sergeant.

By the time they’ve muddles their way through to Fili’s entrance, even Bilbo was feeling a bit frayed. The company all but collapsed into a disgruntled pile once break was called, cradling their feet.

It was easy enough to spot Fili, shaking hair out of his eyes as he undid the ponytail. Balin crouched down next to him, beckoning Bilbo closer as well.

‘Now, talk me through your character.’

Fili shrugged, dimpled grin infectious as ever.  ‘The notes I got just said ‘the prince’.’

‘Exactly.’ Bilbo did his best jazz hands, which earned a few giggles. ‘He’s someone who commands attention. He strolls into a room and all eyes are drawn to him.’

Fili nodded, jumping to his feet. ‘So I come in, stage left, stop in the centre and pose like a peacock. Did I get that right?’

For what felt like the first time today, Bilbo huffed out a laugh. Balin clapped Fili on the shoulder. ‘When you’re ready. Take it from the top.’

He did pick up the anti-ballet concept quickly, and he at least moved like a normal guy. But.

Balin held up a hand. ‘You’ve come, but you haven’t _arrived_.’

There was a loud ‘Ha!’ from the back of the room. Fili didn’t bother turning around, just flipped the bird in that general direction.

‘Everyone’s face will be covered in act one. It is paramount that your body language speaks for the character, even more so than usual.’

‘Go on, find your inner diva!’ Kili chirped in, the resulting titters cut abruptly short, no doubt thanks to Thorin.

Fili paced back to where he stood, brows knitted. Bilbo knew it would be hard; getting them to shake off the discipline that was drilled into every dancer from a young age.

He held his tongue, giving Fili time.

Eventually the blond nodded, rolling his neck from side to side.

Bilbo pressed play.

Fili marched across the room, adding an exaggerated sway to his shoulders. When he got to the centre ( _extras swarming in, crowding at his feet for attention),_ he touched his temple in a two fingered salute, mouth quirked towards the imaginary press.

‘Excellent!’ Bilbo resisted the urge to high-five him. Hardly helpful, given the already dubious trust in his credentials.

 

 

His back was playing up again. The amount of emails that needed answering was approaching triple digits. Gloin just left a message saying they needed to discuss a few things, which was never a good sign.

He wanted a stiff drink. He wanted a painkiller or ten.

Thorin dropped into the chair with a groan, grateful for the silence in the building at last; the janitor had left half an hour ago.

Two days into rehearsal and they’ve just about finalized the first act. At least the company was getting used to Bilbo’s style, more ready to comply when he gave out corrections over Balin. That was one quality Thorin did appreciate; the attention to detail from both of them, constantly shuffling dancers around until they got the perfect visual.

And so far, not a pirouette in sight.

Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose. The irritation was mostly instinctive. He shuddered to think what his grandfather would have said (‘too much fluffing about!’); most likely Thror would have stormed out of the studio without a backward glance.

Frerin, on the other hand, had always had a much wider interest. Dabbled in tap, even hip-hop for a few years. Which had been at the root of all their biggest fights, silent and prolonged.

‘Any chance I could lure you away from the desk?’

He jerked his head up in surprise. The figure leaning against the door was whited out by the hallway light. That stance though, he’d recognize it anywhere.

‘Sorry, work calls, you know how it is.’

‘More like work is holding you hostage.’ Dis tsked, dangling a bag from her fingertips. ‘Chilli con carne, yes with brown rice, you freak.’

He accepted the kiss on the cheek with a grunt, half-heartedly batting her away. Dis proceeded to lay the cutlery out, impatient as ever.

‘Well? Tuck in.’

Thorin fought not to whine. ‘You don’t need to force feed me.’

‘If I don’t, it’s just going to sit here and get cold.’

Apart from the dark hair, Dis looked nothing like him, or Frerin. Her face soft and rounded, a generous mouth that lent itself easily to laughter. But that particular scowl was pure Durin, one that terrorized younger dancers for generations.

Resistance would be futile. He sighed, unscrewing the flask. The first inhale of that spicy aroma made his stomach grumble, which Dis mercifully ignored.

‘How is it coming along, or should I not ask?’

Thorin thought about it for a moment, then made a noise through a mouthful.

‘I’ll take that as _better than expected, but I’m being a slave driver nonetheless_.’

There was a reason why Dis was the only one out of the three of them who stood firm and refused to be pushed into the world of ballet: her sharp tongue and whip quick judge of a situation.

‘And are the little devils behaving themselves?’

Thorin snorted. ‘Ask me again in three weeks’ time.’

‘Not a chance. I’m steering well clear of you by then.’ Her playful smirk disappeared. ‘Anything I could do to help?’

In all honesty, Dis’ chosen field was so far removed from the family business, Christmas get-togethers used to be the whole table talking auditions and budget cuts, while Dis stayed glued to her phone.

‘You could go scare some sense into my meddling librettist.’

Dis lifted one finely arched eyebrow. ‘Has my brother finally met his match?’

For a bookish critic, Bilbo was surprisingly hard to sway once he’s made his mind up. It was equal parts frustrating and---

Thorin allowed himself to lean into the comforting warmth of Dis. Briefly, mind.

‘My head is going to be completely grey when this is over.’

 

 

Some days you’d wake up, and knew instinctively you might as well stay in bed.

Today was shaping up to be a prime example.

Fili was missing his trademark smirk, the corners of his eyes drawing tighter with each aborted movement. His tense mood seemed to have affected Kili as well, who’s stopped chewing on his thumbnail to gnaw on a knuckle instead.

Balin had expected the clubbing scene to be a struggle, least of all because of the sheer physical demand of dancing with multiple partners. Being a member of the corp meant having the safety of group numbers. Suddenly finding yourself in the spotlight could be disconcerting, to say the least.

‘Grab her around the waist. No, _grab_ her, don’t be polite about it. Pull her close, a bit more.’ Balin circled the two dancers. ‘Pull her off centre. Lorena, let yourself fall into him.’

She tried it again, went on pointe before swooning dramatically, hanging off Fili’s arms.

‘Marvellous, now drop.’

They both threw themselves to the floor---‘and roll, lift lift lift, chest up, stop there’---Balin got down to their level with a grimace, damn his knees. ‘Lead with your chest. Like he’s drawing you up from a string. Head and neck go floppy’---Lorena did just that---‘see how much better that line looks now? Okay Fili move away.’

‘Don’t look back to check.’ Bilbo seized the moment to speak up, keeping a close eye on every flicker of uncertainty on Fili’s face. ‘Move away because you’re bored with this one already.’

Dwalin stepped forward following Balin’s cue, stopping in front of a kneeling Fili.

‘Now use him to pull yourself off the floor.’

Fili hesitantly reached for his partner’s wrist. Bilbo all but pounced, slapping that hand off. ‘What are the keywords for this act again?’

‘Intoxication, eh, debauchery?’

‘Exactly. Be hands on. Ankle, calf, knee, thigh, pull yourself up step by step. He’s nobody, a faceless, nameless entity, he just happens to be in your way.’

 ‘Mister Baggins.’

Bilbo flinched; he’d forgotten Thorin’s presence, having sunk so deep into the story telling.

‘A word.’ Thorin turned without waiting, leaving Bilbo to stare after his disappearing back.

‘Uh oh.’

Yeah, uh oh. Bilbo thought to himself darkly, irritated that his line of thought was so rudely interrupted.

 

 

Bilbo just about shut the door behind him when Thorin let loose, words spilling over each other.

‘I do not appreciate you turning my company into a bunch of, exotic dancers.’ He said exotic the same way people might say maggots.

Bilbo threw both hands up, ‘you’ve read the notes. You know where this act is going.’

‘Yes. With restraint, and grace.’

‘Balin had no issue with it.’ Bilbo smoothed a hand over his forehead. ‘Look, is Fili so uncomfortable because he’s never danced leads before, or is it something else?’

Thorin frowned.

‘You know, because he’s with someone. I get it, it’s harder to act intimate—’

‘What?’ Thorin looked beyond lost now. He was either the world’s most oblivious artistic director, or intentionally obtuse.

‘Fili and Kili, aren’t they---?’ Bilbo gave a vague wave of his hand, hoping it encompassed everything from ‘dating’ to ‘helplessly co-dependent’.

Silence.

Thorin let out a slow, controlled breath.

‘They. Are. Brothers.’

Oops

‘Oh dear…’ Bilbo stammered, his face warming. ‘I didn’t meant to. I just thought. They look nothing like each other I---’

‘Perhaps it’s best we call it a day.’ Thorin spit the syllables out, eyes narrowing.

So much for his midlife career change.

 

 

Bilbo didn’t bother going in the next day.

Or the day after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> port de bras: shaping/movement of the arms  
> I always thought that, because the relationship between Thorin, Kili and Fili was never clearly stated in the film, this could lead to some interesting conclusions from an outsider ;P


	4. Chapter 4

The insistent knocking was what dragged him out of bed, mouth hanging open in a series of half yawns. 

Gandalf loomed in the doorway, brolly poised for another bout of vigorous tapping.

‘I never thought you were someone who runs away from a challenge.’

‘Good morning to you too.’ Bilbo snapped, the effect somewhat ruined by his fluffy slippers, which Gandalf was eyeing with interest. ‘And for your information, I didn’t run away, I was sacked.’

‘By whom?’ Gandalf didn’t wait for an invitation, just ducked under Bilbo’s arm. No mean feat considering his height. 

‘Not in so many words. But I might as well leave with dignity,’ Bilbo grumbled. ‘I can’t---’ he ran a hand through his hair, conscious of the fact that it was flat on one side, wild on the other, ‘---I can’t think, I can’t concentrate with Thorin hovering, glowering at my every direction.’

‘That, my dear fellow, is just Thorin being his charming self. I assure you it’s nothing personal.’ Gandalf rattle about in the kitchen, serving himself tea. ‘He’s always been a handful.’ a cupboard sprung shut, drowning out the rest of the sentence. ‘Surely you didn’t think it would be an easy job?’

‘I’m not an idiot Gandalf. Thorin has made his opinion of me clear from day one. The last couple of days were like pulling teeth!’

‘I don’t doubt that.’ Gandalf chuckled. ‘Good thing he’s pretty.’

Bilbo was shocked into momentary silence, mouth opening and closing. Never in a thousand years had he envisioned Gandalf capable, or remotely interested in anything beyond his books. 

‘…runs in the family, I suppose.’

Bilbo shook his head to reign his wandering thoughts back in. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Come on Bilbo, you can’t seriously tell me you haven’t noticed.’ 

‘No I haven’t. Let’s just say his charming personality eclipsed everything else. Now can we go back to the question of why you’re here?’

But Gandalf was off. ‘If memory serves, Kili is pretty much a carbon copy of him when he was younger.’

Sweat dripped down Bilbo’s armpits.

‘Do you mean to say, Kili and Fili are his kids?’ Oh god, that little faux pas of his could be way worse than he’d originally thought. 

‘What? No. god no. nephews. Can you imagine? He’s practically married to the company.’

Bilbo leaned his forehead against the cool surface of the table. Perhaps if he pressed into it hard enough the week would stop sucking.

‘I shan't go back. That’s why you’re here isn’t it?’

Gandalf continued to stir sugar into his tea, looking suspiciously casual. 

‘Their last show only ran for six weeks. Not nearly enough to pay the venue back, I don’t think.’

He was not going to ask, he absolutely wasn’t. In fact, he’d rather scorch his tongue on the tea than joining this conversation. The patterns on his saucer fascinating to watch. 

‘Rather a shame, really, if they go under this season.’

‘I’m not listening.’ Bilbo mumbled into the rim of his cup. 

‘Must have taken a lot out of Thorin, asking for help.’

‘Not, listening.’

Gandalf smiled that all knowing half smile, switching the topic to Bilbo’s garden instead. Even suggested some bloke called Radagast, in case Bilbo wanted a couple more exotic specimens. Which Bilbo rebuffed with a polite yet firm no. 

The last time Bilbo trusted Gandalf’s friend with his garden, he’d returned to a house damn near strangled by bright purple vines. 

 

 

Morning classes were his favourite part of any day, the almost ritualistic quality of it: muscles and tendons starting to fit together like a well-oiled machine, until they were moving seemingly of their own accord.

Just as they were finishing, Dwalin felt a twinge in his lower back. Nothing new really, ever since he went pro he couldn’t remember a day without some nuisance hovering at the edge: blisters, peeling toe nails, pulled muscles. Tape them up and dance on was the unofficial motto for everyone. 

By the time he attempted an arabesque, the twinge has dug its claws in and held firm, couldn’t even get the back leg up to 90 degrees. 

Balin, thankfully, pretended not to have noticed and pushed the class on. Dwalin skipped the rest of the practice and concentrated on thoroughly stretching everything out. From the corner of his eye he caught Ori glancing at him, looking endearingly concerned. He shook his head to pacify their pianist, and popped a couple neurofen. 

He reached for the bottle again at lunch time. Just, you know, as a precaution. Balin plopped the tray down next to him with a deliberate clank. 

‘Once every four to six hours. You’ve been downing them like sweets.’

‘M fine,’ Dwalin stabbed at a piece of pasta. ‘A hot bath tonight ‘n I’ll be right as rain.’

‘Dwalin.’

Sometimes he wondered whether Thorin taught Balin the art of pouring maximum exasperation into a single word, or the other way round. 

‘Either you go and see our physio now, or I frog march you there.’

His brother could talk, Mr-got-on-stage-with-a-stress-fracture. Dwalin risked a glance up:  arms across the chest, the balletmaster pose was out, it was a lost battle. 

‘Fine.’ He shot up, getting a sliver of satisfaction from the way the chair squeaked in protest.

Oin didn’t look surprised when Dwalin marched in (barely limping, if he might say so himself). If anything he looked resigned. 

‘Get on the table, you know the drill.’

The youngsters would joke about Oin and his magical fingers, capable of curing all ills. Dwalin snorted, if only. Over the years he’s learnt to dread the visits, the flat tone of Oin’s voice which said nobody ever listened to his advice. 

He bit back a scream when Oin pressed down just above his right hip, and white flames raced up and down his side. 

Oin stepped back. 

‘How long has this been going on?’

Dwalin shrugged. To be fair, all the aches and pains were merging into one continuous white noise, he mostly just pushed it to the back of his mind. 

‘As far as I know, just came on today mid practice.’

Oin blew out a long breath, a sure sign that he was not going to like the verdict.

‘Okay, hit me with it.’

‘Need a scan to be sure, at the moment I’m thinking disc hernia.’

His heart sank. Bed rest was not what he needed right now. 

‘This is where you tell me to sit on my thumbs for six months, isn’t it?’

Oin peered at him over the thick rim of those glasses. ‘No, this is where you actually pay attention to the same thing I’ve been telling you for the past year and half.’

Christ. 

Dwalin shuffled to the edge of the table, careful not to put too much weight on the bad hip. 

‘Duly noted.’

Oin put one hand to his shoulder, looked at him dead in the eye.  ‘How many operations have you had already?’

‘You know fully well how many.’

‘Humour me.’

‘One knee, two ankles.’ 

The pause might as well have been a scream of despair. Dwalin scrubbed a hand over the shaved curve of his skull. ‘Look, I’ll think about it. I will.’

‘You do that.’

 

 

Bilbo only opened the front door to get the papers.  Instead he found Balin standing near the porch, looking lost. His eyes lit up when he caught sight of Bilbo.

‘Mister Baggins, what a relief. I wasn’t sure I’ve got the address down correctly.’

Bilbo pulled the dressing gown tighter about himself. He debated between several responses---mostly involved the words way, no, hell---eventually settled for a half-hearted good morning. 

As if sensing his darkening moods, Balin cut to the chase prompto. ‘I know just the place for some excellent breakfast crepes.’

Damn it. 

‘Don’t you have classes to attend to?’ 

‘Thorin has kindly agreed to take over, so I get the morning off.’ Balin, too, seemed to have received the memo that Bilbo’s house was free-for-all, inviting himself in with ease. ‘There’s no hurry. We’ve got plenty of time.’

Seriously, Bilbo’s had enough of near strangers barging in and re-scheduling his day for him. And he would let them know just that, as soon as breakfast was served. 

                                                         

 

The crepes, as promised, were divine. Which went a long way towards raising Bilbo’s spirit. Balin asked for extra bacon with his. Bilbo thought the delicate balance between sweet and savoury was what made the dish. But hey, who was he to step between a man and his crispy, salty goodness. 

They finished the food in companionable silence. Bilbo sipping his tea while Balin mopped up maple syrup with obvious glee. Noticing Bilbo looking, he grinned.

‘I was never allowed any cream or sugar back in the day. Been on a bender ever since my retirement.’ He mock shuddered. ‘Years of egg white omelettes and grapefruit changes you.’

There’s always been a cloud of mystery surrounding Durin’s. They were one of the few small scale dance companies left in the country, and on top of that, entirely family-run: guest choreographers were unheard of, even backstage access was rarely granted. Thranduil once compared them to a cult, which was not entirely untrue. 

‘I assume you’ve always been with the company.’

‘Oh yes, back when Thror was the director.’

‘Thorin’s father?’

‘Grandfather.’

Bilbo almost swallowed his tongue biting back the question about Balin’s age. He looked what, late fifties? Yet by the sound of it he’d gone through three generations of company directors already. 

‘Mister Baggins---’

‘Please, Bilbo.’

‘Bilbo, I understand that Thorin is not…’ Balin picked his next words with care, ‘…the easiest person to work with. But know this; he only has the company’s best interest at heart. ‘

‘I get that, I really do.’ Even a blind person couldn’t miss the way Thorin patrolled the studio like a mama bear. Although most dancers kept their distance, whenever they felt unsure of something, their eyes automatically sought Thorin out like a bunch of ducklings. ‘It’s a shame that we can’t seem to arrive at a neutral ground, artistically speaking.’

Shred was a seriously disturbing look on Balin. ‘In that case, you’d be happy to know he’ll be busy meeting benefactors and other such things in the coming month.’ 

As if by magic, a heavy key dangled from Balin’s index finger, gleaming like a surreptitious wink.

 

 

He always found it comforting that his flat was just above the studio, which meant he could come down any time of the day and lose himself in the distinctive smell of polish and resin. Blue Mountain was not quite the same as the old studio that had been in the family for decades, but then it was perhaps for the best. 

Blue Mountain was the blank slate he needed, whether he’d admit it or not.

If the ghosts of his past followed him still, their footsteps were muted within those walls. He wouldn’t have to turn a corner and be bombarded by the memory of Frerin launching himself onto his back with a war cry; or hear the phantom sound of Thror’s cane, tapping in time with the music. 

Dis had been the one to arrange the auction of their old place. Thorin had fought her tooth and nail; bed bound or not he wasn’t going to lose the piece of family heirloom. The subsequent shouting match had brought the nurses running, and nearly had Dis banned from the hospital. 

_The studio meant nothing, nothing at all if you couldn’t bear to set foot inside and run the goddamn company!_

And that had been the end of it. 

He leaned his weight against the barre, propping himself upright with a white knuckled grip. 

The person on the other side picked up on the fourth ring, voice slurred with sleep. 

‘Gloin.’

‘…hmmph?’

‘Bring the paperwork in tomorrow, I’ll sign it.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case it's unclear, an arabesque is this  
> [](http://s157.photobucket.com/user/poordietingpig/media/intervista-3-5_zps67b4c2df.jpg.html)


	5. Chapter 5

_It’s Saturday night and you’re cruising for a girl, or guy, you’re not fussed. A fine body should be appreciated regardless of the make. The air in this place electric, like stormy waters, like thick leather biting into skin. You let the wave of limbs pull you close, rocking you to some primal beat. People melt in and out of your open arms, sweat slick and eager, multi-coloured lights swim across their blank faces._

_From the corner of your eye you catch a glimpse of something, a strand of dark hair sticking to the high curve of a cheekbone, and everything else falls out of focus._

_You lurch forward, drawn towards that pinpoint of clarity amongst the soup of interchangeable entities._

_Stumbling and pushing through the crowd, you scan wildly around for a disappearing back, the sharp angle of jaw, turned away in distraction. But the target remains tantalizingly out of reach, every time you think you’re close._

_Is this what the doorman promised, drawing back the curtains with a serene smile: enter and you shall find your heart’s desire? How you scoffed at the idea, thinking it an insult; for you already have everything._

_A single trembling violin note, E-flat. The crowd parts, bodies fall to the floor like felled crops. And then he’s **there** , out on the balcony, broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist, limned by starlight. _

_Frozen on the spot, your heart thumps, suddenly unsure even as your feet drag you forward._

_You lay a hesitant hand on the wing of his shoulder, urging, imploring. He turns with the motion easily, doesn’t even flinch when you reach up to trace the edge of that mask._

_You know those eyes:  no how, no why, you know, you **know**. _

_The mask comes off with a tug, you stagger back, mouth falling open on a gasp---_

Fili detangled himself from the sheets, grimacing. Groggy with sleep, he crawled to the edge of the bed and sat aimlessly for a moment.

He wasn’t expecting the kitchen light to be on. But then, it wasn’t surprising to find Kili perched on the counter, chugging milk straight from the carton.

Kili lifted an eyebrow, wiped off the white moustache, burping loud enough to wake the dead.  Fili poured himself a glass of water, downed it in three gulps, the chill a welcome distraction.  

‘Alright?’ Kili hovered, still hugging the milk bottle.

Fili nodded, half distracted, then blurted out, ‘Guitar hero?’ He wasn’t exactly insomniac, but once he was awake it took a while for him to fall back into sleep again. Kili shrugged, shuffling into the living room on his trail.

By round two Kili was visibly flagging, squeezed one eye close then the other like he was resting them in turns. Fili shoulder bumped him. ‘You gonna crash?’

‘Y-yeah. ‘He yawned, molars showing. ‘You okay?’

To be honest, he was grateful tomorrow was Sunday, which meant mum’s cooking, and more importantly, no rehearsals. Fili scratched at the stubble that was beginning to itch.

‘Just tired.’ Tired and apparently losing his mind. Dwalin had warned them about such side effects, going on about residue muscle memory. But a full techni-colour run through?  

‘It bothers you.’ Kili piped up, more of a statement than question.

‘Not for the reason you might think.’

Kili grinned back wide, arms spreading in unmistakable invitation. Sometimes Fili had to recall really hard if he’d been dropped on the head as a baby.

No, at the moment he was having a hard enough time wading through the technical ambiguity. To an outsider it might look easy: flopping and writhing around on the floor. But for someone who’d spent years under steely-eyed teachers, sacrificing extension for fluidity was a constant battle against his own body.

On top of that, Bilbo was playing the cards close to his chest; giving nothing away and prone to last minute changes. The low thrumming thread of anxiety was creeping from his character to him. It figured that Kili had inherited the roll-with-the-punches mentality from their dad, and he got handed mum’s bulldog brain. Every night he’d collapse onto his bed, too tired to turn the light on, and that one step he hadn’t quite nailed gnawed at him.

‘Look.’ Kili nudged his ankle. ‘Some of this new age stuff does my head in too. But we’re in it together, right? How bad could it be?’

As much as they struggled with the choreography, Fili didn’t think he’d trust anyone else to catch him every time he was asked to fall blindly backwards. Likewise, someone had to stop his brother from landing on his face mid-lift (there were a few near misses). A lifetime of pranks and playground fights seemed to have come in handy, as far as situational awareness went.

He thumped Kili on the back once, suddenly buoyant with relief.

 

 

Ori did a double take when he spotted the hunched over figure. He hastily put the cigarette away: most of the company were at some stage of giving up smoking, withdrawal and second hand exposure was not a good mix.

He was saved from having to announce his presence by the squeak of his Vans. Dwalin lifted his head, waved.

Ori shuffled his weight from side to side. He never got the knack of acting casual around Dwalin, always swinging between nervous energy and tongue-tied silence. He was ready to make an excuse and retreat when Dwalin patted the ground beside him.

The back of the studio was no more than twenty feet away from the river, a constant swoosh sway in their ears if they didn’t close the windows.

‘My favourite spot in London.’ Dwalin jerked his chin.

‘The London eye?’

‘Waterloo Bridge.’

Personally he failed to see why. Tower Bridge, sure, Hammersmith bridge, yes on a rainy day. Waterloo Bridge was functional, nothing more.

‘Okay.’

Something in his tone must have tipped Dwalin off. ‘Every time I ride the bus across, London happens to me all over again. D’you know what I mean?’

Ori gulped, drawing both knees up.

\---he stumbled in, panting and disorientated, still clutching the torn off ad. Everywhere he turned he was getting in others’ way, utterly out of place in the swarm of sleek bodies. By the time he plucked up the courage to push open the nearest door, praying it was HR---

That day, he’d seen someone **fly** , head thrown back so far Ori had half expected his spine to snap. For one breathless moment it was as if the person was cupped by an invisible hand, suspended in mid-air.

Yeah, he knew exactly what Dwalin meant.

Fili and Kili teased him about it, always good-naturedly of course; wriggled their eyebrows and made constant reference to Dwalin’s flexibility. He couldn’t help that he had the most obvious crush on the planet. Thankfully they’d mellowed out after the first two weeks, probably having put ‘Ori wanted to play Dwalin like the piano’ in the same category as ‘Thorin glowered’, and ‘the sun rose from the east’.

 ‘Getting cold out.’ Ori went for the first thing that came to mind, in case he was bleeding awkwardness all over Dwalin’s down time.

‘Might get a white Christmas after all. Any plans?’

‘Dori is coming  to London, I think. God only knows where Nori is.’ Ori winced, remembering how Dori had reacted to the state of his flat. For the rest of the holiday his place had smelt like fake lemon and pine. Floor so shiny he’d been terrified of slipping. ‘What about you?’

‘Ma’s been hounding me forever. Might just take her up on the offer, eat turkey and be a couch potato this year.’

‘Sitting at home? You?’ Dwalin was one of those crazy people who’d come in on Sundays to get an hour or two of exercise, just to keep his body in tiptop condition.  He was all firm, firm and broad and…

Ori glanced up, paranoid that Dwalin might have detected those impure thoughts.

And froze. A whole tangle of emotions chased one another across Dwalin’s face, so quick it made Ori’s head spin.

Words, damn it. Where were they when you needed them? Ori made a few false starts, gave up and started running scales in his head.

‘My old teacher once said.’ Dwalin squinted at the rippling lights in the water. ‘Ballet is like formula one. Except you’re both the driver and the car.’

Ori waited, not daring to break whatever it was giving Dwalin pause.  

‘She never did tell me what happens when the driver is willing, but the car is falling apart.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the VERY late update, and a short one too *hides* 
> 
> I've been busy with the yuletide challenge, and also, having sent my draft to silksieve, who's kindly lent her expertise on the world of ballet. She pointed out one major issue: my Bilbo seems to swing between having no dance knowledge and knowing quite a bit. The point is, theatre experience and dance experience are not interchangeable for the most part. 
> 
> Following her advice, I've switched the role of Bilbo to a librettist, aka someone who's responsible for creating the story behind a ballet/opera, and have him collaborating with Balin. So I spent some time revising chapter 2 and 3 to reflect this. Such changes won't affect the characterizaion, or future plot development. But I would like to try and make this AU at least somewhat plausible. 
> 
> If anyone is interested, here is an article on the role of a librettist, again thanks to silksieve for the [link](http://www.nytimes.com/2013/10/27/arts/dance/alexei-ratmansky-tackles-the-tempest.html?_r=0)

**Author's Note:**

> I know next to nothing about putting on a theatre/dance production, so some suspension of disbelief is sorely needed here.  
> Also, [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


End file.
